


In the bleak December

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: AU, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-02
Updated: 2009-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cryo unit malfunctions. Exit Wounds AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the bleak December

**Author's Note:**

> For the [](http://flashfic-hub.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**flashfic_hub**](http://flashfic-hub.dreamwidth.org/) hot &amp; cold challenge.

_boom, boom, boom._

The field team haven't yet been out for an hour when the noise starts.

They're not even on Una's comms yet, still en route to the destination the Rift monitor had picked out as the likeliest site of impact, so the sudden muffled thumping that echoes through the otherwise silent Hub startles her. The cup of coffee she's just prepared splashes out over her fingers, instantly scalding.

Una swears and quickly puts the mug back down, fumbling with the faucet and shoving her hand under the stream of cold water without looking at it. She can't see much of the Hub from the doorway of the small kitchenette, but she stares piercingly around what parts of it she can get her eyes on. If she were a dog, she imagines her ears would be pricked up right now. Maybe even tail jutted straight out, front paw raised.

She shuts off the tap as silently as possible and lifts her stinging hand to her mouth, blowing across the wet skin to soothe it further.

_boom, boom, boom._

There's a gun in the second drawer down, and Una checks that it's loaded--a brief glance down and up again to the still-empty Hub--before stepping out of the shelter of the kitchenette. Her heels click loudly on the painted concrete.

She'd always, always thought the Hub was haunted. Even before her informal induction (which was largely conducted at the pub), where she learnt of what must be a _fraction_ of the fatalities that had occurred within the base, the Hub had struck her as being particularly creepy. A morbid place to work. And not just in the part of it that sported a _wall of corpses_.

From which the ominous thumping sound is now emanating. Of course.

_boom, boom, boom._

The boss had just given her a not-unkind but still somewhat-condescending look when she'd mentioned her theory that the Hub must have residents of the undead variety. Well, not _zombies_ (which were somehow less creepy than ghosts, of course). When pressed as to why spirits of the departed were so unlikely in comparison to the rest of what they'd seen, the boss had simply responded that if that were the case, there'd be no room left in the Hub for the living.

Somehow, that hadn't helped, but in hindsight Una's not sure it was meant to be reassuring. She hesitates, now, to activate her comms, to call on the others. She's been here long enough that it's past the unspoken time limit where asking about new things is an indication of her settling in, rather than being too thick to know the answer already.

It'd be just her luck to be stuck here alone with some kind of Torchwood tell-tale heart.

_boom, boom, boom._

The sound of her footsteps unintentionally underscores the next trio of thumps, and it somehow makes it more real; Una reaches up to her earpiece, automatically tapping in to the open line of the field team. Their sudden relaxed, unconcerned chatter in her ear is at sharp odds to the cold tension that's seized her body.

"All right, Una?" It's the boss. Of course, tapping into the line wouldn't have gone unannounced, she's heard the alert tone herself before, stupid of her to forget. She realises her palms are sweaty.

"All right," Una says, amazed and a little reassured at the cheerfulness in her own voice. "What would make a thumping noise, d'you think?"

There's a lull in the conversation, just the background hum of the SUV coming through her earpiece. "What sort of thumping noise?"

"Sort of a--"

_boom, boom, boom._

"--Booming, like." Her breath hitches a little, and she shifts her grip on the gun in her hand. "A 'boom boom boom'."

"My portable monitor's not showing anything out of the ordinary in the Hub, Una, have you checked the systems diagnostics there?" Michael's voice is reassuringly calm, in a friendly sort of way, utterly unlike the downright inhuman calm the boss sometimes gets into. Even Una's been there long enough for the Pavlovian adrenalised response to _that_ tone; when it's out in force, you know the end of the world is probably nigh. Or even just the end of Torchwood. She suspects that's much the same thing, for the boss.

"Una?"

"Just checking now." She doesn't put the gun down, typing one-handed at Michael's station, bringing up the windows as he instructs her.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles. "Trough in the power supply for cold storage," she reports, looking at the graph on-screen. Maybe it is zombies after all. "Though not enough to indicate a malfunction in the systems. Perhaps just enough for a single drawer...? And the noise is coming from cold storage, did I mention?" She laughs, briefly and humourlessly, babbling on before anyone can respond. "Shot to the head, isn't it?"

_boom, boom, boom._

Una startles, unable to stop herself whipping around to put her back to the desk instead; the Hub's still empty.

"Una, listen to me. If the noise is coming from cold storage with those readings then it indicates that one of the cryo units has disengaged."

"Cryo--?" She can't prevent the incredulity in her voice. Now's not the time to be having _Austin Powers_ flashbacks, but the concept alone is bordering on ridiculous.

The boss's tone is nothing but serious, though. "I need you to check it out."

She bites down the urge to protest; he seems to sense it anyway.

"Una. Each cryo unit was interred by Torchwood, most set to disengage after a certain date. You might get a surprise, but the possibility of it being an _unpleasant_ surprise is highly slim."

"Yes, sir." She's already walking down towards cold storage, gun held straight out in front of her in both hands despite his reassurances. He's never been that good at reassurances, really.

_boom, boom, boom._

The sound _is_ coming from one of the drawers, helpfully identified by a yellowish glow that spills around its edges. Una can't suppress the shudder that crawls across the back of her shoulders. The drawer's too heavy to open with one hand, so she reluctantly tucks the gun into the back of her belt before taking a firm grip and a deep breath. Then she hauls the drawer open.

It takes another moment for the opaque, ice-rimed shield to slide back with a faint hydraulic hiss, and then she's looking down into a man's very alert and _very_ alive face. Surprise washes over his features, blue eyes widening amidst a very dirty face, and then the shock is replaced with something akin to rage.

Una shrieks, unable to reach for her gun again before the man surges up, and then she's reeling and the side of her head is burning. Her ear's ringing, and with her hand clutched over it she can feel that her comm's been boxed right out.

She scuttles back and struggles back upright, planting her feet wide and groping for her gun; whipping it back around in front of her. She hopes it's not wavering; the blow's rattled her brain enough to make her vision briefly spin.

The man looms in front of her, expression contorted. He advances towards her, filthy coat swaying raggedly around his shins, as if impervious to the threat of her weapon. He looks more like he's just clawed his way out of a grave, out of place in the sterile cleanliness of cold storage.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarls.

"Torchwood," she spits right back. If the boss was right--which isn't even in question, honestly--then he should _know_ who she is. Or at least where he is.

The man blinks rapidly and she steadies the pistol in her grip as his concentration seems to shift--expression changing from blind animosity into something closer to confusion as his gaze flickers over her body, taking in her stance and focusing seemingly on her clothes, more than anything else.

"What year?" he demands, his voice a painful-sounding rasp.

She flexes her fingers, sending her own measuring gaze over his attire. Hard to tell under the dirt but the coat might be early 20th century military, though there's no uniform under it, and the only other item she can classify in a glance are his boots; perhaps later 20th century, judging by their materials. Perhaps her answer won't be cause for further distress, then, especially as he's not yet questioned her at the "why was I in a refrigerator drawer?" level yet.

"2014."

His look of horror distracts her for long enough that he's nearly upon her before she realises he's advancing again. Up close he smells like earth and rot and unthinkable, terrifying things, and the strength with which he propels her body back seems inhuman. Una's squeezed the trigger before she's barely realised what's happening, then screaming as his momentum continues to carry him forward, dead weight toppling with her beneath him.

Zombies; not quite so fun as she'd hoped, then.

Though he probably wasn't a zombie, considering he's lying there, face down on the grey floor, no movement but for the spreading pool of red beneath him. It wasn't even a head shot. The muzzle of the gun had been pressed right up against him when it went off; his chest must be ruined.

Una's shaking. She's probably going to be fired. Her tongue feels gritty; she'd ended up with his coat mashed into her open mouth when he landed on her. _No unpleasant surprises_, the boss had said. She wants to spit or vomit, but etiquette prevents her; it'd be unseemly to be so uncouth in this room with its ever-looming memorial to the dead.

The burst of adrenaline had been enough to get her out from under him and away--there's hardly any blood on her blouse at all, really--scuttling back, crab-like, with the floor cold and hard beneath the heels of her palms. Now she feels weak and helpless. Useless, and that won't do at all. The open drawer juts out nearby; she reaches for it and uses it to pull herself up again.

The spread of blood has slowed, if not stopped, and in its stillness reflects the tiled gloom of the drawers rising above it as if it's made of polished obsidian.

The thumping had been like a metronome for the beat of her fear; the silence of the Hub without it is somehow even more eery.

_Shit_, her comm. The panic rises belatedly as she scans the floor for it; the tiny blue light that's ordinarily hidden in her ear shines like a beacon beyond where the body lies. Her gun's discarded a little closer, so she picks it up first, which turns out to be for the best, really, because it means she's already got it in her hands and shortly cocked when the body on the floor jerks violently then flops over onto its back.

The man looks surprised, again, and _far_ too bloody alive, but Una's not going to make the same mistake this time, readying herself as he struggles to rise again, head shot it is--

Her attention is so focused on the man--the _thing_, no one should be getting up from a point-blank shot like that--that before she's even processed that there's someone behind her the gun's being efficiently knocked out of her hands and she's being elbowed back. Una stumbles a little and her focus widens; the boss standing alongside her now gripping her pistol low by his hip, his own still holstered. He's standing in front of her, so she can't see his face, and the tense square of his back blocks her view of the... the zombie.

Or perhaps not a zombie, because the boss turns enough part-way back towards her--and past her, Una realises, where the rest of the team form an aggressive semi-circle, their own weapons pointed toward the recently-dead interloper. The boss's expression is grim, jaw tight, and his voice grinds out of him like it has to force its way through something else lodged in his throat. "Stand down."

The boss turns back to the stranger, who rises to face him. "Ianto?" the man says, and it takes Una a moment to recognise the creaking sound as a name, and _whose_ name; she's seen it written but not sure she's heard anyone actually _address_ the boss that way since she's been here.

The boss's voice is calm when he answers. "Hello, Jack."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1510170.html


End file.
